I sigh, adjusting my nightshirt as I sprawl on the bed. "Ugh, don't remind me. Mark's been on my case about the marketing campaign for this new client, sending his usual snarky emails about 'deadlines' like I'm not already drowning. And yeah, he's still hitting on me—keeps dropping these gross, subtle hints, like calling me 'babe' in meetings or leaning way too close when we're reviewing proofs. It's exhausting. Plus, I'm pretty sure Sarah's gunning for my team lead spot. She's been 'forgetting' to include me in key meetings, and I caught her cozying up to Mark yesterday, probably trying to win him over. But I'm stuck waiting on copy from the team—they're not sending it till tomorrow, so I can't do anything tonight. I already prepped my presentation earlier, stayed late at work to get it done. That's why I was out grabbing coffee and books in the first place."
Lena whistles. "Yikes. Sarah's playing dirty, and Mark's being a sleaze. You gotta call her out, Elise. Stand up for yourself! And maybe tell Mark to keep his 'babe' comments to himself before you slap an HR complaint on him."
I sigh.
She's right. She's usually right.
"What did you say?" I ask, spacing.
"Stand up for yourself! And maybe tell Mark to keep it zipped before you slap an HR complaint on him—or, you know, you did say he's hot."
"Lena!" I snap, my face flushing.
She's right again but he's a no-go for launch.
"Okay, okay, just HR then. Or don't—you and I both know they're corrupt."
"Yeah, just hired goons," I half-joke.
"They barely know their ass from a wall. Half of 'em are hired to be mistresses, I bet," Lena snorts.
"Did you hear about that CTO scandal at the baseball game?" I ask.
"Yeah, he dropped like a fly, and the internet roasted him. Went viral," Lena laughs.
Nothing good comes from being famous. The irony of me working in marketing isn't lost on me.
"Well, I heard the company bounced back after the stock dip, hired some bigwig, and tripled their earnings," I say, shifting in my pajamas.
I imagine Mark and shake my head, then picture that sexy mystery biker—so hot, all leather and smoldering eyes, my pulse quickening.
Why am I such a mess over guys like that?
I breathe deeply—in through the nose, out through the mouth—but my chest heaves, making me feel exposed even alone. I tug my pajama top.
Lena's voice cuts in. "Elise, you zoning out?" I laugh, shaking my head, ready to dish more.
She can't see me.
I laugh, the tension in my chest easing further as I sit up on the bed, fiddling with a loose button on my nightshirt. "Yeah, maybe. I just need to nail this campaign by Monday, and waiting on the team's copy is killing me. Honestly, it's distracting enough that I'm already forgetting about Mr. Mysterious and his stupidly perfect smile."
I don't need that kind of trouble. He's definitely Trouble with a capital T.
"Good," Lena says. "Focus on work, outsmart Sarah, and shut Mark down. Mystery Biker can wait. If your biker's as bold as you say, he'll show up again."
Am I desperate? One day and I am obsessed with a borderline stalker. At least I don't work with him and he's not my ex.
I nod again, even though she can't see me, and glance toward the living room again, where my book Song of Russian Ice and Secrets waits, its tale of Peter and Catherine's passion still tangled with my own fleeting daydreams of the biker.
I need to get off the phone. It's getting late. I can't focus.
I thank Lena, promise to keep her posted, and hang up, the weight of the day settling over me like a heavy blanket. I'm exhausted, my mind flickering with the biker's swagger and Lena's wild story, so I decide it's time for 'bed'.
I grin and head to grab my book. I know just how to feel better.
I know what I want. After Lena's wild story, skimming that steamy novel about Peter ravishing Catherine, and daydreaming about the hot mystery biker, I'm restless, craving release. Even Mark—stupid Mark, who I can't stand—stirs something in me tonight with the way he stares, bold and unapologetic.
I hate the liberties he takes.
Indignation flares, my chest tightening at his nerve, his rakish "babe" comments crossing every line. Yet, there's a flicker of something else—feeling pretty, seen, desired, even if I'd never want him back. It's flattering, despite his unchristian behavior. Even if he was ugly, which he's not—Mark makes me feel good about my body.
He leaves no doubt he wants me.
He is not for dating, though—just a quick hookup to "get it out of his system," I'm sure. Guilt surges, clashing with the heat; we're coworkers, and the office's no-dating policy looms large. I also, don't want to be used. It'd be a mess.
He's not even a real man.
A real man would have manners, would woo a woman properly, not leer like Mark does. His mom should've taught him better. Not like the mystery biker, all brooding intensity and leather-clad charm.
I'm spiraling, my thoughts a tangled mess of want and shame. I close my eyes, trying to steady my racing pulse, but it's no use—I'm too wound up. Frustration and desire mixing into a tangled web.
Finally, I snap out of my haze and remember what I was going to do. A grin spreads across my face as I think of my book.
Perfect, I'll lose myself in that story tonight.
I plan to brush my teeth, get ready for bed, put my cup away, and let my imagination run wild with those steamy pages.
I head to the living room, forgetting the book for a moment, grab my cup, and shuffle to the fridge for a quick snack. I take a swig of strawberry milk straight from the jug, then throw together a turkey, spinach, butterhead lettuce, and sharp cheddar cheese sandwich. I scarf it down, eager to fill my hungry belly. Then dive into my nighttime routine, buzzing with anticipation for the book's next chapter.